Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Mike Borowski 
The Obama Presidential Library is not a National Archives presidential library at all. It’s a museum, a foundation headquarters, and a Chicago Public Library branch. A presidential library with no presidential library in it might be the most honest thing on the campus.
The Obama Foundation promised Chicago a $470 million endowment so taxpayers would never get stuck with the bill for his presidential center.
During the last shutdown, one private citizen wrote a $130 million check so our soldiers could get paid. Every member of Congress got paid on time anyway. They wrote the law that way.
My shoulder waited three years. The VA pushed my surgery back three years, and Bernie Sanders wants to put your mother and your kids on a bigger version of that exact government line.
When Trump froze foreign aid in early 2025, the left came unglued. Children would starve, democracy would collapse, and the planet would wobble off its axis and drift somewhere past Neptune. Worst of all, a taxpayer-funded comic book about an LGBTQ superhero in Lima might never get its sequel.
In Iraq I walked little girls to school past men who wanted them dead for learning to read. Then I came home and watched American kids get diplomas for sitting in a chair. Class is now in session.
A science teacher, Army combat medic, and former paramedic who has spent two decades watching this slow-motion disaster lays out the only education system worth building.
I keep hearing this fairy tale about how the parties “switched” sometime in the 1960s. You know, the story where racist Democrats magically transformed into civil rights champions and Republicans secretly absorbed all that Jim Crow enthusiasm overnight like some political body swap horror movie. Fascinating theory. Absolutely captivating. Just one small problem: NONE OF IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
Suicide recognizes no race. So, if you are hurting right now, skip my whole article. Call or text 988 instead. Veterans, press 1. It is free, it runs 24 hours, and the person who picks up does not care what color you are or who you voted for. Okay. The rest of you, pull up a chair. Class is in session.
My Pap was a lot of things. Stubborn. Proud. Army veteran. The kind of man who said what he meant and meant every word of it. I was lucky enough to be there when he took his last breath, and I would give anything to hear his voice one more time.
He and my dad got into it one day over politics. It got heated the way it always does in our family. Then Pap went quiet for a second, looked my dad dead in the eye, and asked, calm as a Sunday morning, who he voted for.
My dad admitted he hadn’t voted.
Pap didn’t yell. Didn’t lecture. He said, “You chose not to have a voice for your country. You have no say in this conversation.” And that was the end of it. My dad never forgot that. Neither did I.
I am going to start this one with a confession, the same way I start most of these.
I teach Physics. I teach Anatomy. I did not inherit somebody else’s curriculum and read off a textbook somebody else wrote. I WROTE the textbooks. Both of them. Published them. So when a city council stands up at a ribbon-cutting and tells me a fresh coat of blacktop is “helping the planet,” I need you to understand something: I am not the guy who hears the word “science” and just nods along. I am the guy who goes and checks the arithmetic, because checking the arithmetic is literally my job, five periods a day, in front of teenagers who would rather be anywhere else grading me on whether I actually know what I’m talking about.
The three Muhammads, the plan they wrote down, the countries that already lived it, and why the American Left is holding the door open.
Yes, the capitalization is a pun. Khomeini named America “the Great Satan.” Big Devil. U-S-A. Us. I teach high school, and there is a clause somewhere in my contract requiring at least one terrible pun per lesson. Box checked. Moving on.
Some of you read my first garden parable. Big tomato plants. A city council. A row of dead vines. The council starved the best plants, the buyers left, and then they held a ribbon-cutting because the gap between the best plant and the worst plant was finally zero.
Everything was equal. Everything was also dead. A proud day for equity.
Let me tell you about a garden.
Not a metaphor about hope or healing or some poem you would find tacked to a kindergarten bulletin board. No. This is a garden about money, taxation, and the spectacular self-inflicted economic implosion of places like New York City and California. Stay with me.
A Satirical Field Trip Through the Worst Restaurant in Human History. I want you to imagine something with me. Just one McDonald’s. One building, one parking lot, one drive-thru, one sad little PlayPlace with a slide that smells like feet. Now hand the keys to Congress.
Let me tell you about a house.
Not a metaphor about hope or healing or some poem you’d find tacked to a kindergarten bulletin board. No. This one is about immigration, borders, assimilation, and the spectacular self-inflicted chaos of a nation that forgot why it has walls. Grab a seat. There will be a quiz at the end, and yes, I grade on a curve, but not that generous a curve.
Friday morning. First cup of coffee. The good mug. “She calls me Daddy.” Kids not up yet, house quiet, the one peaceful ten minutes a father of four gets all day.
And then I read it.
Ro Khanna, congressman from Silicon Valley, announced that it is time for Democrats to offer “a bold vision for free childcare.” His bill would make childcare free, pay childcare workers a “living wage,” put friends, family, and neighbors who watch your kids on the government payroll, and mail stay-at-home parents a $1,000 stipend.
I FAILED MY OWN CLAIM. MORE THAN ONCE.
Let me start with a confession, because somebody needs to say it out loud.
I am a medically retired Army combat medic. Twenty-three years. Iraq. I spent my career documenting injuries on OTHER soldiers — SF 600s, sick call notes, MEDEVAC paperwork. If anyone on this planet should have walked into the VA claims process and crushed it on the first try, it was me.
I did not.
When the climate movement tells me oil is the enemy, a refinery is a moral crime, and the only grown-up position is to shut the plants down and feel good about it, I do not panic. I go to the energy tables. I go to the shipping lanes. I go to the literature. And what I find there is nothing like what they are selling you.
I owe Senator Sanders an apology. And a challenge.
For years I stood in front of classrooms and told teenagers that socialism does not work. I was wrong, and I am willing to say so in public. Socialism works fine. It has been working in the United States for generations, on a printed schedule, at places like Fort Jackson, Fort Sill, and Fort Leonard Wood, none of which has a single Bernie sign in the yard.
There is a catch, of course. There is always a catch. The system only works when a specific set of conditions is in place, and every one of them is something @SenSanders has spent fifty years calling cruel. I know he could not survive those conditions, because he already flunked a much gentler version of the test in 1971. We will get to that. Do not skip ahead. It is the best part.